See also: Comments from Readers

December 7, 2004

Amman, Jordan

The women and children who hadn’t received donations remained outside the office window in last ditch attempts to get something …anything.

How do you restore someone’s humanity?  How can you reach out to a people that time has forgotten?  When it comes to the millions of Palestinian refugees, the answer is simple:  you take the time to listen to their stories.  That was the most valuable lesson I learned at Talibieh camp.

It all began when I met Taghrid at a Ramadan evening gathering.  She struck me as a nice, Palestinian upper class lady, with strong religious convictions and an impeccable taste in clothing. 

Over the course of the evening, I expressed my interest in visiting the refugee camps and I expected the same reaction from her I’ve been getting from everyone else: “Why would you?”  “You really shouldn’t.”  “If you do go, you must be careful.”  Instead, Taghrid said quietly “Why don’t you come with me.  I’m going there next week”.

I found out that twice a year, for the past five years, Taghrid has been visiting the refugee camps -  once during Ramadan and once before the Eid Al Adha.  She takes with her loads of second hand clothing and thousands of dollars in donations.

When visiting the Talibieh camp, Taghrid co-ordinates her visits with Ms. Virginia Nassrawy, an employee of the Near East Council of Churches Committee for Refugee Work. 

I quickly accepted Taghrid’s invitation and without hesitation informed my 13 year old daughter, Siham, that she would be coming with me and missing school that day. 

The following week, armed with camera and notebook and accompanied by Siham, I sat in the cramped back seat of an oversized station wagon that was packed with bags full of donations. 

Watching Taghrid’s husband, Khamees, zigzag through the morning traffic, I asked him if he always accompanies his wife on these trips.

“Of course I do,”  he affirmed.  “I always come with her; it is a long journey.  But I can't go from house to house like she does. It is hard for me to see so much pain and tragedy.  She tells me stories that are enough to make your heart break.”

I asked Taghrid to share some of these stories with me. 

“Ah… where do I begin?”  she replied.  “Many houses have only rags to cover the window and door openings; they have no carpet, and in some cases not even a straw mat, so the kids and the babies just crawl and play on the dirt.  What really strikes me hard every time is the number of people I see with deformities or with handicaps. 

"I remember seeing a family whose mother suffered from diabetes. Both her legs had been amputated and she just sat on the mattress like an old pile of flesh surrounded by her children.  They only had one room where they all slept, ate and lived.

"Another house I visited was again just one room with four mattresses lined up next to one another. On them lay four deformed and handicapped teenagers.  The mother looked after them.  They had no medical supervision.  Such sights make me tremble on the inside; they make me want to run all the way home.”

“So why do you do this every year?  You can easily just send your donation from the comfort of your home.”

“I like to go in person, because when you send a donation you don’t know how much of it goes into administrative fees and how much actually makes it into the hands of those in need.  I like to hand the money in person to those who are in need of it.”

“Also, I try to be a good Muslim and, as you know, Islam is a charitable religion.”

Charity in Islam does not come only in the form of money or gifts, but a kind word is an act of charity.  A visit by a complete stranger to a home that has been shunned by others is an act of charity, and human contact is an act of charity.  

“I like to go into their homes,” Taghrid continued.  “I like to see their faces, to hear their stories, and I don’t want to be disconnected and aloof.  I don’t want to forget.”

It was easy to recognize that we had arrived at the Talibieh camp. The streets are dusty and narrow – only one car can pass through at a time.  The houses - if we can call them that - are small, and many have zinc rooftops.

There are lots of children of all ages dressed in old, torn and dirty clothes.  The one thing the children share in common is that their clothes don’t fit - either too big or too small - a sign that they are wearing someone else’s hand me downs.

We arrived at Virginia’s office at the center established by the Near East Council of Churches Committee for Refugee Work   It is located in a small building which functions as a school for teaching women skills to help them earn a living - embroidery, sewing and crafts.

After giving us a warm welcome, Virginia took out the list of 35 extreme cases she had prepared in advance for Taghrid - the ones who were most in need of assistance.

Taghrid usually visits the needy families in their homes, but this year, for efficiency’s sake, she decided to visit only a few and to meet the rest in the office.

Virginia explained to me that once word is out that there is a visitor in the camp giving away donations a huge crowd builds up quickly .  “We hope things today will be under better control,” she said.

Indeed, a crowd of women was starting to gather outside the small office while workers unloaded the bags into the back room. In the beginning they were orderly.  As, one by one, their names were called, they came in and, swallowing their pride, they answered Taghrid’s questions:  “How many children do you have?”  “Where is your husband?”  “Do you work?”.

These short interviews help Taghrid establish the size of donation she can give to each case.  For example, more money is given to single moms with more than four children than is given to one elderly lady living alone.

Word spread that donations were being handed out and before we knew it, the crowd had multiplied at an incredible pace.  The workers handled the growing numbers with patience and Taghrid continued to inquire about the circumstances of each case, shaking each woman’s hand and wishing her a happy Eid as she placed the money discreetly in her hand.

She was careful not to turn away any of the hundred or so ladies whose name was not on the list.  Bottom line is they are all needy or they wouldn’t have come to the center and they certainly wouldn’t be living in the camp.

A young girl walked in and stood with her head lowered.  She wore torn cotton pants with layers of tee shirts and an old sweater.  Her worn out leather shoes showed patches of her skin.  Although in her early teens, her eyes were those of an old lady who has seen enough of life and now was ready to embrace death.

Instinctively, I glanced at my daughter who was about the same age as the young girl.  Siham’s eyes had filled with tears as she sat in shock, absorbing the events of the day.  I knew then that missing this day of school was the best thing that I, as a mother, had given her.  I hope she too will never forget.

This young refugee girl is the oldest of seven children.  Her mother, widowed a year ago, is sick and cannot leave the mattress, so the girl must care for the family and run the household.  Her family was on the list and she had come to collect their donation.

A woman in her late sixties, whose face reminded me of my own grandmother, arrived wearing a traditional Palestinian dress embroidered by herself when she was young.  Both dress and owner reflected years of neglect and hardships.

By this time, the crowd had gotten louder and more women were trying to get past the workers at the door.  Taghrid’s interviews were becoming shorter and shorter and when this old woman walked in, Taghrid just shook her hand and wished her a happy Eid and placed in her palm some money. 

The old woman took two steps to the side to let the next woman in, and stood still in the corner of the room.  Ten minutes later, I had to ask, “Khala, (aunt), why are you still here?  Do you need more money?”.

Her response left me speechless.  Choking on tears she said “I just need to tell you my story.”

It had a profound effect on me, this poor woman’s need to tell her story. 

She was born in Jaffa to a well to do middle class family.  Her father was a merchant who traded in textiles.  When Israel was created, her family fled on foot as rumours spread that the Jewish army was on a massive killing spree.  She was a young girl when her family ended up in a UN refugee camp in Gaza.

By the time Israel launched its second war in 1967 to capture what remained of Palestine, she was married with two young sons, and the tent they started off with in 1948 had turned into a concrete structure.  Sadly, once again she was forced to flee the war and she found herself back in a tent, this time in Amman, with her husband and her two young sons. 

Now, she told me, her husband was dead and her oldest son had died of a mysterious illness. Her other son had married but was unable to support his family, and suffered from such depression that he just walked out one day and never came back.  His wife also disappeared a few months later leaving the old woman with a four year old grandchild to look after.

“The child loves me as if I am his mother, but I am too old and if it weren’t for these handouts, I wouldn’t know how to feed him.”

With these words, she walked away as if her mission was accomplished and her pride restored.  It was vital for her dignity that we know that the money was not for her alone but for the young child she was taking care of.

The dreaded moment arrived when all the money Taghrid had brought and all the money I had was gone.  It was a drop in this ocean of poverty, yet we had to announce that it was over. This was the hardest and most heartbreaking part.  The workers locked us into the small office where we sat and waited for the crowd to give up and go home. 

The women and children who hadn't received donations remained outside the office window in last ditch attempts to get something…anything.  It took twenty minutes for the crowd to disperse. With heads lowered, and with heavy steps and loaded hearts, they walked away.

Israel, I charge you with turning these once proud land owners, farmers and merchants into beggars.  International community, I charge you with turning your back on this horrific injustice and with complacency in the face of this crime.

Part XV Photo Story of Life in Talibieh Camp

Index & Introduction Reports from Amman Jordan My Palestinian Diary

Part XVII A Christmas Story